


never durst poet touch a pen to write

by aegious



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Writing on the Body, homare writes a poem, itaru is there - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:34:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23530141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aegious/pseuds/aegious
Summary: until his ink were temp’red with love’s sighs.Hisoka has already disappeared out of the room, probably to sleep anywhere that Itaru and Homare aren’t. Good call, if you ask him.This leaves them utterly, painfully alone, and as Itaru watches the feather of his weird quill pen flutter as Homare drags it across the page, he thinks he ought to capitalize on that.
Relationships: Arisugawa Homare/Chigasaki Itaru
Comments: 15
Kudos: 54





	never durst poet touch a pen to write

**Author's Note:**

  * For [koneko_kakumei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/koneko_kakumei/gifts).



> sometimes when you love a rarepair so much you have to make your own food because no one else in the fandom is gonna do it for you
> 
> if you dont think im gonna use shakespeare quotes for anything related to homare you, sir, are wrong. the title is from love's labour's lost, act 4 scene 3

Itaru knows not to interrupt Homare when he’s writing. It messes with his head, breaks his concentration, lets the river of inspiration weather an untraceable path through unknown territory.

But man, his reactions are always so good.

So he raps lightly on the door and waits patiently for Hisoka to let him in—he always does. And when the door creaks open, Itaru can practically _see_ whatever intangible thoughts are swirling around Homare’s head today. The only sound in the room is the scratch of a quill pen against paper, the rhythmic tap of loafers against a polished wooden floor, a gentle hum when Homare finds something he’s pleased with.

It draws him in, and Itaru finds himself crossing the room without much thought. It’s not the first time he’s watched Homare work, truly work, but each time is no less captivating.

They’re not really the same, but they are similar, Itaru thinks and Homare knows. And these moments of unfiltered passion and uninterrupted creation, never holding back in these small moments when they can be themselves to the fullest, are what makes these similarities known.

Hisoka has already disappeared out of the room, probably to sleep anywhere that Itaru and Homare aren’t. Good call, if you ask him.

This leaves them utterly, painfully alone, and as Itaru watches the feather of his weird quill pen flutter as Homare drags it across the page, he thinks he ought to capitalize on that.

He’s standing behind Homare when that loud, boisterous, rhythmic voice calls out. “I know you’re there, Itaru-kun.” Never once does his pen stop moving.

Itaru smirks and walks his fingers up Homare’s back, reveling in the way Homare shivers under his touch. He’s still writing, but there’s a new, jagged black line trailing off from one of the characters and down the page. He rests his hands on Homare’s shoulders, head atop his, and thinks this is boring.

“This is boring,” he repeats out loud this time, but there’s a smile in his words and a taunt in his voice. Still, Homare keeps writing. Not like Itaru really expected anything different.

“I’m working right now,” is Homare’s response. It lacks his usual shine and flourish, but that’s fine. This is the Homare only Itaru gets to see: the quieter, more reserved, more focused Homare, hard at work and deep in concentration.

“Read to me,” Itaru tries, twirling Homare’s sidebang around his fingers. His arm is pressed flush into the crook of Homare’s neck as he plays with his hair. Itaru bites back a smile when the skin beneath his touch bursts into flames, and he takes the opportunity to run his thumb down Homare’s jawline. He’s winning, now, and it’s somehow more exhilarating than a ten-kill streak.

Homare sinks into his chair, into Itaru’s caress. “It’s not finished.”

“I don’t care.”

Homare’s sigh carries with it a breath of ostentation, an overbearing passion that most shy away from. “Very well. I suppose you can serve as inspiration.”

Itaru knows he won’t understand this poem; he never does. But he listens intently anyway, because the emotion in Homare’s voice is just enough for him to _get_ it.

Homare clears his throat. _“A chord mellifluous, time chimes with your eros, the heart sways upon—”_

The final word connects seamlessly into a loud groan. His shoulders tense, and then he slumps forward, taking Itaru with him.

“This is uncomfortable,” Itaru points out, knowing full well he can just stand up.

“My well of inspiration has run dry, Itaru-kun!” Homare practically wails. “Where should I go from here? What word will produce that perfect impact I so desire? How can I surpass my magnum opus with naught but a half-formed idea and an unresolved soul?”

“That’s a lot of words just to say writers block,” Itaru mumbles, and then he does stand up, pulling his fingers through Homare’s hair as if the lingering touch will keep them connected, as if they aren’t already.

Without a word, he sits himself on top of Homare’s desk, entirely covering Homare’s half-written poem.

“Wh—?” Homare sputters wordlessly, pushing himself back in his chair to get as far away from him as possible. His cheeks are colored pink and his eyes are wide, watching Itaru far too intently for someone who doesn’t like this. “What are you doing? I can’t finish my poem like this!”

Itaru smirks, leans in just enough that their breaths mingle in the space between them. “Sure you can.”

Homare taps an impatient finger on the desk and shakes his head furiously, his other hand gripping at the hair where Itaru’s fingers had been just moments before. “No, not at all. For one, you’re _sitting_ on my paper. Ah, the words are escaping me… the novelty— _non,_ the _faiblesse_ … ugh…”

Itaru’s hand is gentle when it tugs on Homare’s arm. Though Homare continues to moan out random words he’s sure are meant to be poetic, he lets his hand drop easily into Itaru’s lap. “Didn’t you say I’m your inspiration?”

“I said you _can_ be my inspiration,” he corrects with a little huff that tickles Itaru’s nose.

“Then let me inspire you,” Itaru breathes out. He leans in a little more, hoping to close that endless gap that separates them.

“Oh!” Homare suddenly exclaims, moving too fast for Itaru to register. Itaru falls forward and knocks against the side of Homare’s head, the space where his lips used to be.

 _“What?”_ he exclaims, and if he sounds a little petulant, at least Homare ignores it.

“It’s true!” Homare continues, pushing Itaru back up without even acknowledging Itaru’s desperate attempt kiss him. “You are my inspiration!”

“That’s great, Homare-san, but—”

Homare grabs onto Itaru’s arm before he even realizes what he’s doing. But he can feel the sharp tip of the quill pen press into his skin, the lines dancing across his forearm.

Heat creeps up Itaru’s neck, his back straight and stiff as he watches Homare write character after character, gentle and careful as if Itaru is fragile enough to tear.

“What are you doing?” he asks, stutters, his embarrassment forming beads of sweat along his hairline as he watches each expertly drawn stroke of the pen take shape into beautiful calligraphy.

“Well, you’re still sitting on my paper,” Homare answers absently, his earlier intensity forgotten as he concentrates. “I can’t forget this.”

Homare brings his pen down, the first stroke of a new character, and it sends a shudder up Itaru’s arm and throughout his body. He just barely manages to keep his arm still, even with Homare’s grip around his wrist, fingers rubbing absentminded circles on Itaru’s palm.

He feels like this, right here, is art. Like _he’s_ art. Like Homare is turning him into a masterpiece before his very eyes, shaping and refining him into something beautiful, like he’s already done a thousand times over since they met.

The cold tip of the pen tickles as it curves along his skin, drawing patterns and phrases he could never think of, never understand.

With a flick of his wrist and trail of ink left behind, Homare breathes out, like he’d been holding it this whole time. Itaru, too, finds he’s been holding his breath.

“It’s finished,” Homare declares, but his voice is soft. His bangs are covering his eyes, but Itaru knows he’s admiring at his creation, and he doesn’t dare move a muscle.

He can barely read it from upside down, but he knows, at least, it looks beautiful. Homare is nothing if not an artist, and that he is in everything he does.

Homare lets go of his arm and clears his throat, perhaps realizing then just how close they’ve gotten. Itaru feels the space around him grow colder as the heat of Homare’s passion dies down, cool satisfaction overtaking him.

“Keep going,” he finds himself saying. His hand reaches out and threads his fingers through Homare’s, careful not to smudge the wet ink, careful not to ruin Homare’s creation.

Homare asks a wordless question, a simple hum as he finally meets Itaru’s eyes. “But I finished—”

“Write another one,” he says more firmly. “There’s still space.”

Homare takes a while to answer, contemplating every syllable as if each one held the weight of the world.

“Let me inspire you.” The sentence echoes in his ear, but it carries a different weight now. It’s something new, and he pulls Homare closer, out of his chair, so that he’s leaning over him, Itaru’s back pressed against the desk, against the wall, their legs suddenly tangled in a knot Itaru doesn’t want to untie.

He’s pretty sure he can hear Homare’s heartbeat. Or maybe it’s his own.

Maybe it’s both of theirs, beating in time with each other.

“Golden fields… Malinoviy Zvon…” Homare mutters, his voice incredulous as he stares at Itaru, eyes searching for something only he can see. When he finds it, his eyes burst to life, glistening with inspiration. “Of course.”

Itaru offers up his left arm this time, a blank canvas bare and fresh. They can work their way upward as Homare etches more poetry into his body, marks him up with words impossible to understand.

The tip of the pen presses into his skin like a chisel on marble, and Itaru gasps. His right hand shoots out, grabs at Homare’s head, pulls him close even as more and more words appear on his arm, branding him in only a way Homare can.

And tomorrow during practice, when someone asks about the ink stains bleeding into his hair, smudged across his collarbone, running down every finger, perhaps he will come up with a tasteful lie—perhaps he will leave it up to their imagination. Because this is between him and Homare.

Because this work of art that he’s becoming, this masterpiece Homare is making out of him, is for them alone.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/aegious)~


End file.
